Red Breast
I saw one hanging on a tree,
And O his face was sad to see,—
Misery, misery me!
There were berries red upon his head,
And in his hands, and on his feet,
But when I tried to pick and eat,
They were his blood, and he was dead;—
Misery, misery me!
It broke my heart to see him there,
So lone and sad in his despair;
The nails of woe were through his hands,
And through his feet,—ah, misery me!
With beak and claws I did my best
To loose the nails and set him free,
But they were all too strong for me;—
Misery, misery me!
I picked and pulled, and did my best,
And his red blood stained all my breast;
I bit the nails, I pecked the thorn,
O, never saw I thorn so worn;
But yet I could not get him free;—
Misery, misery me!
And never since have I feared man,
But ever I seek him when I can,
And let him see the wish in me
To ease him of his misery.
